


red or dead

by goldengalaxies



Series: pansmione fics [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Auror Hermione Granger, Aurors, BAMF Hermione Granger, Bigotry & Prejudice, Blind Character, Castles, Crimes & Criminals, Detective Hermione Granger, Detectives, F/F, Feminist Themes, Hate to Love, Lust at First Sight, Murder, Murder Mystery, POV Hermione Granger, Period-Typical Sexism, Plot, Politics, Serial Killers, Smart Ron Weasley, Vampire Pansy Parkinson, Vampires, Victorian, these tags are incredibly random i’m sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 10:16:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19743637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldengalaxies/pseuds/goldengalaxies
Summary: “So, what did you want to ask from me, Auror Granger?” Parkinson leans back on her chair, delicately sipping from her wine glass.She takes a deep breath, trying to draw her attention back to the matter at hand. “As you probably well know, there has been a recent number of killings in the village. Do you happen to know anything about it?”“Why don’t you tell me,” Parkinson raises a brow and smirks in a way that makes Hermione’s stomach swoop. “You’re the one who is under the assumption that I have something to do with it.”(Auror Hermione Granger has been tasked with the most important case of her career, but she can’t help but let herself be distracted by a certain vampire)





	red or dead

**Author's Note:**

> notes on this au:  
> 1\. wizards, muggles and vampires/supernatural creatures all coexist and know about each other’s existence. most people are cool but ofc there’s gonna be bigotry and all that bullshit that comes along with it  
> 2\. There are also no muggleborns, halfbloods or purebloods ur either a witch or u aren’t  
> 3\. this is set in a victorian style england but it’s not really specific so u can just make up whatever you want :)  
> 4\. Witches and wizards are called Wiccans as a general race term
> 
> ALSO: I am not blind so if any of the mentions of the blind character are offensive or incorrect please let me know so I can fix it! <3
> 
> I think that’s about it! I really hope y’all enjoy! <3

Hermione strolls down the dark streets, keeping her wand in a tight grip. She feels more anxious than usual, this being her first mission without Harry or Ron. She’s never even gone on a hunt alone before, let alone without her usual back up. Not that it is much of a hunt, she’s only in the questioning stage of the assignment so far. It should be easy and no trouble- she’s only there for information- but it’s dark out and she’s headed to the castle of the most notorious vampire family that her Auror unit has ever heard of, so her brain won’t listen to logic right now.

The silence of the night is broken by the noise of a passing carriage, making her jump. A startled yelp starts to climb in her throat, but she clamps her lips together firmly and steels herself.

Trying in vain to settle her nerves, she brushes out her dress, wiping her sweaty palms on the soft material. The dress itself is a long, sensible grey gown that is a perfect disguise in the dimmed lamp-lightened streets.

It’s only seven o’clock, but it’s nearing winter so the sun had already set, making it look later than it is. Despite this, the night’s air is warm and the town square is bustling with people when she arrives. She makes her way through at a quick pace, trying to hurry whilst being conspicuous about it. The house her mission is at is the Parkinson Manor, only a twenty-minute walk from where she is now, but she wants to get this over with as soon as possible.

She pushes past a crowd of laughing women, muttering a quiet apology as she bumps into one of them.

The woman whirls around, her narrowed eyes betraying the annoyance she feels.

The woman opens her mouth to speak, but suddenly her gaze drops to Hermione’s hand, which had automatically tightened around her wand. The woman, who Hermione can now guess is a vampire- with the white points slide out between her lips- stares at her wand warily before turning around without a word.

Bewildered, Hermione stares at the woman’s back as she scampers away.

Generally vampires didn’t like wizards that much, but they usually coexisted peacefully alongside other races. She knew neither vampires nor muggles cared for wands, however, the woman’s reaction was peculiar, to say the least.

There have always been tensions, of course, with there being many rouge muggles and creatures that disagreed with the wiccan’s command over the parliament and the law, but Hermione had never encountered anyone who had been _afraid_ before.

Hermione herself works within a section of the Auror department that specifically deals with those rouges. It’s mostly vampires, but they’ve had to deal with anyone from deadly magical creatures to a _particularly_ stubborn old muggle lady Harry was once assigned to. Hermione has fond memories of that week- she and Ron had found Harry’s frustration _hilarious_.

She smiles at the memory, before shaking her head and turns back to her original path, sparing one last fleeting glance at the woman’s fading figure.

The fact that she’s been sent out on her first solo mission with absolutely no details also contributes to her anxiety. She’s never gone in without information about the suspect, but Head Auror Riddle had told her that she had to find something by the end of the week and Hermione had immediately thought of the Parkinson’s. 

Renowned throughout the entire department as a dangerously powerful vampire family, Hermione had decided to start with them. Being Lords and Ladies, they ruled over the vampires of the town as royalty. If any of their subjects knew anything, the Parkinson’s would know about it. 

The case itself was a series of fifteen murders that had all occurred over the course of two weeks and they were all killed in the same way; their blood was completely drained from their body, with two signature puncture wounds on the neck of each body.

It wasn’t hard to guess what did it, but the _who_ remained a complete mystery. That was why it was such a high profile case; having no leads and fifteen bodies in under two weeks. It was also rather strange since all of the victims had been vampires themselves. A vampire going around killing others of its kind? It was practically unheard of.

Hermione had been both shocked and terrified in equal measure when Head Auror Riddle had assigned her to start researching into the case, but the opportunity was too good to pass up. She didn’t understand why he was trusting her with this kind of case so early on in her career but had decided not to question it too much. Hermione wanted to prove herself, show to him that she was a great Auror who had the potential to become his replacement one day.

It only takes her a few more streets and she’s found the entrance. Standing at the gate, she can hardly even see the castle through the heavy mist that surrounds it. Still, she pushes onwards through the gate, ignoring the way her heart clenches anxiously.

Halfway up the hill, Hermione begins to regret her choice of heeled boots. Whilst practical for the cobbled streets, the pathway here is steep and the balls of her feet are already aching.

When the castle finally comes into view, Hermione almost gasps at the sheer size of it. The building towers dauntingly over Hermione as she steps up to the front door. She shakes the urge to shrink into herself and straights up, setting her jaw determinedly. She knocks on the door in rapid succession, holding her breath.

The door swings open to reveal a servant girl. “Yes?”

“Um- I’m with the Aurors,” Hermione says. “I need to speak with the head of the house please.”

”Lady Parkinson?” The girl asks. 

Hermione is momentarily surprised that it’s a Lady, rather than a Lord, that rules such a prestigious household, before berating herself for conforming to such misogynistic expectations. “Yes, please.” 

The girl eyes her for a second before nodding. “I will go and fetch my Lady and let her know you’re here. I won’t be a moment.”

“Okay.” Hermione sighs, slight impatience slipping into her tone. It’s freezing outside and whilst her dress is layered with thick petticoats, the chill still manages to bite at her skin.

“You may come in and wait in the foyer.” The girl offers, obviously noticing Hermione’s shivering. “I’ll have to take your wand, however- unless you have a warrant?” The girl trails off suggestively, as if she already full well knows that Hermione doesn’t have one.

The girl fair-haired and so pale that, for a moment, Hermione had thought she was a ghost. It’s quickly made evident that is not the case, however, when she reaches out to take Hermione’s wand in a firm, warm grip.

Hermione’s hand twitches uncomfortably as her wand is taken but she understands that she can’t fight it. Technically, she was well within her rights to ask Hermione to sheath her wand or confiscate it if it was a simple questioning visit such as this. Hermione hated it, but also understood the value in the rule; she wouldn’t like it if someone armed came into her home.

She follows the servant through the front hall, her heeled boots clicking on the beautiful dark marble flooring.

The light fixtures glitter tauntingly, looking to be more expensive than the entirety of Hermione’s own small one-bedroom flat. Everything in the hall shines wonderfully, sparkling in the way only extravagance can.

They stop abruptly at the end of the hallway and Hermione follows the serving girl into a small but cosy drawing-room. The walls are painted a deep green shade that match the decorative pillows, which strewn over dark coloured armchairs.

She takes a seat on the sofa, settling down and pulling out a notepad and pen, readying herself to take down any key pieces of information that could help solve the case.

The clock ticks loudly in the almost-silent room, only serving to make Hermione more anxious. She shifts uneasily, smoothing down her dress.

She takes the moment alone to look around the dimly lit room; darkened by thick, black drapes that matched the ambience of the rest of the castle perfectly. The only lighting is a few candles on an ornate candelabra that hung from the ceiling.

It’s so stereotypically vampiric she can’t help but feel amused.

The door creaks open. Hermione looks up, inhaling quietly as she gets her first glimpse of Lady Parkinson.

Short dark locks frame sharp cheekbones and pale skin. The usual fashion for women is long curls to be piled up into an extravagant bun, but the dark bob suits Parkinson completely.

Her eyes gleam darkly. There’s something in the way she gives her an intrigued once over- eyes slowly trailing down her body- that makes Hermione shiver.

The woman herself is wearing a black velvet dress that falls around her slim waist, melting down her curves like a second skin. She’s tall, taller than Hermione, who feels just as intimidated of Parkinson’s height as she did by her castle. Her tall stature makes her limbs long and delicate, and Hermione watches, enthralled, as the woman reaches out a hand towards her.

Hermione immediately bobs into a polite curtsey, and Parkinson mirrors her action, her hand still outstretched in front of Hermione’s face.

She suddenly realises why Parkinson’s hand is still hovering between them and reaches down quickly to press her lips to the back of the woman’s hand. Her fingers are long; petite and manicured as many of the elite of society’s are.

Hermione realises she’s staring and drags her eyes upwards to Parkinson’s face, lingering on the smirk on her lips.

Hermione takes a deep breath, restraining the urge to roll her eyes at herself. She was on the job, and that’s what she needed to do. “Hello, Ms-“

“Lady.” She corrects, cutting Hermione off.

Hermione leans back, surprised by both the interruption and the silky voice that did it. It’s one of those voices that are strong and seductive at the same time, a clear power scratching the surface as a barely disguised warning.

Hermione inclines her head in apology. “Sorry. _Lady_ Parkinson, I’m Auror Granger.”

“Oh, an _Auror_ , very impressive.”

“Thank you,” Hermione says stiffly. The amused twinkle in Parkinson’s eyes makes her feel as if she’s being mocked.

Her suspicions are confirmed when Parkinson's dark red lips curve into a small smile, which she covers by taking a sip from her wine glass. The liquid inside is a dark red shade that makes Hermione squirm. She _really_ hopes that’s not what she thinks it is. Parkinson notices Hermione’s stare and shakes the glass suggestively. “Oh, how rude of me, I haven’t offered you anything to drink. Would you like some?”

Hermione’s head recoils instinctively. “No, no-“

Parkinson rolls her eyes. “It’s wine, darling.”

Her racing heart calms momentarily. “Oh,”

“So, do you want some?”

“I’m working.”

“Ah, yes, I almost forgot. I’m in _trouble_.” She shudders in mock fear and then laughs. “So you can’t even have just a little bit?”

“I can’t drink on the job.”

She shrugs easily. “More for me then.”

Their eyes lock, and silence falls for what feels like hours.

Hermione tears her eyes away and clears her throat. ”I’d like to ask you a few questions if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Well, alright. It’s not like I have much of a choice anyway.” Parkinson replies dryly.

“Of course you do!” Hermione objects suddenly, unable to help herself.

Parkinson raises a sceptical brow. “Right, so the aurors wouldn’t be back with a warrant if I told you to bugger off?” She chuckles dryly. “Come on, Granger, we both know I’m right. Especially with that expression on your face.” Hermione flushes and forces her face to go blank.

”You have a choice to speak to me,” Hermione argues. “Unless you have pertinent information to share. Then, of course, you’d have to tell me what you know.”

Parkinson doesn’t reply to that, her silence doing all the talking. “Let’s get on with it then, darling.” She orders.

Hermione blinks, taken aback. “Er- okay.” She fumbles to pull her parchment and quill out.

“So, what did you want to ask from me, Auror Granger?” Parkinson leans back on her chair, delicately sipping from her wine glass.

She takes a deep breath, trying to draw her attention back to the matter at hand. “As you probably well know, there has been a recent number of killings in the village,” Hermione shifts in her seat, looping one leg over the other as she leans forward. “Do you happen to know anything about it?”

“Why don’t you tell me,” Parkinson raises a brow and smirks in a way that makes Hermione’s stomach swoop. “You’re the one who is under the assumption that I have anything to do with it.”

Hermione quickly realises that her normal interrogation tactics aren’t going to do her much good with Parkinson, and decides, for once, to be straight. “We have determined that the killer is a vampire.”

Parkinson only raises a brow. ”Right. So because I’m a vampire I’m automatically assumed to be related to _fifteen_ murders?”

Parkinson has no problem going straight for the jugular and if Hermione’s being honest with herself, it’s starting to feel very much out of her depth.

Whatever she thought she was expecting from tonight, this certainly wasn’t it. This woman is clearly brilliantly perceptive and Hermione can’t help be impressed by her opinionated bluntness.

“You are a vampire, though,” Hermione says, forcing conviction into her voice. She doesn’t want to apologise to quickly and give Parkinson the power, so holds out.

“And? You have no proof I’ve done anything wrong.” Parkinson shifts in her seat, looking completely unbothered. “Because I haven’t. I may be a vampire-“ She breaks off to throw a smouldering look in Hermione’s direction, the angle giving Hermione a glimpse of shiny, white fangs that peak out between Parkinson’s lips. “-but I haven’t done anything against your kind’s ridiculous rules.”

“My _kind?_ ” Hermione raises a brow. “You know, the way you call our regulations 'ridiculous' kind of makes me think you might be lying.”

“Me?” Lady Parkinson batts her eyelashes exaggeratedly, laughing when she sees Hermione’s disgruntled expression. “And yes. You wiccans,” she rolls her eyes. “You’re all the same.”

Hermione stares at her, trying to see if she could see any hint hidden on her face. After a long pause, Hermione gives into the bait, her intrigue giving out. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you wiccans are all up your own asses. You truly believe vampires are the evil ones? Get a grip. Most of us are harmless. So we have to drink blood?” She scoffs. “We have willing donors and there’s more than enough to go round. That’s common knowledge.” She taps the side of her glass with a dark green fingernail. “But, despite this, you all seem to refuse to acknowledge the fact that not all vampires are bloodthirsty _morons_.”

“I apologise,” Hermione turns pink in embarrassment, backing down quickly. “I wasn’t trying to insinuate anything. I just thought you might know something about the murders since both all the victims and the suspect are vampires.” She tries desperately to regain control of the conversation.

Parkinson chuckles. “I know what you were saying, darling, I simply enjoy someone who is easily wound up,” Eyes hooded, she gives Hermione a once over that makes heat pool in her stomach. “It makes for such a pretty blush.”

Hermione flushes even darker. “I-“

“I also meant what I said, Granger,” The blatant teasing is gone, replaced with a more serious tone. “You’re focused on vampires, but there are other forces at work here.”

 _Other forces?_ Hermione thinks, utterly baffled. The meaning of this conversation is lost on her, but her interest is piqued enough for her to lean forwards despite, desperate to catch every word. “What do you mean?”

“Now,” Parkinson starts. “I don’t claim that my people are the most civilised, nor that they have never committed any crimes, but this one is different.”

“Different how?”

Parkinson looks at her consideringly. “I won’t say more than this so listen close. You cannot trust the people around you. Look into Barty Crouch Junior. He’ll lead you to your killer.”

“What?” Hermione looks up sharply, her hand freezing where it was a moment ago furiously scribbling down the name. “Wait- you know who the killer is?”

“More or less.” The calm, confident expression on Parkinson’s face fuels the irritation that itches under Hermione’s skin.

“Well, I-“ Hermione splutters. “Who is it then?”

“I only know what they call him,” Parkinson says.

Hermione can’t help but gape. ”What? What is it?”

“Lord Voldemort.”

“Lord Voldemort,” Hermione repeats, muttering more to herself than anything. She stands abruptly, suddenly feeling overwhelmingly irritated. She feels like a fool, being pulled about for Parkinson’s amusement. “Why didn’t you tell me this in the first place?” Parkinson shrugs and Hermione’s temper flares. “People are dying out there! We shouldn’t be wasting time. You knew the whole time I was here what I was here for, and you wait until now to tell me?”

Parkinson gives her a cool look. “Calm down, darling, you’ll burst a blood vessel. And you won’t enjoy that nearly as much as I would.”

“ _Calm down?_ ” Hermione repeats incredulously. “I’m trying to stop any more people from getting hurt!”

“Do not mistake me, Granger,” Parkinson’s voice gains a dangerous edge that makes Hermione shiver. “I am protecting someone too.”

What did that mean? Was she trying to say she was protecting someone from the murderer? Why was this person involved? And how did they know about a self-given moniker that no one else had even heard of?

“Are we done here then?” Parkinson asks brusquely, in a way that suggests that they are.

“I suppose.” Hermione nods slowly, returning her notepad to her clutch.

Parkinson stands as well and gathers her skirts in one hand, pushing through the door with the other. Hermione follows obediently through the castle, too lost in her own thoughts to conjure up any other lines of questioning. It would likely be pointless anyway- Parkinson seems finished with answering any of Hermione’s questions.

Despite knowing this, as they reach the front door she can’t help but open her mouth one last time. “Who are you protecting?”

Parkinson’s lips purse. “I told you what I know because I want to get the bastard caught. Isn’t that enough?”

“I suppose it is.” Hermione realises she’s pushing it and turns to take back her wand. She picks it up out of the box and curls her fingers around it, relaxing slightly at the familiar feeling.

“Good night, Granger.” Parkinson dismisses her.

“Goodbye, my Lady.” Hermione steps into the cool night air, not looking back as she walks away.

* * *

“And this,” Riddle flips open the file and squints down at the name. “ _Pansy_ _Parkinson_ , told you this information?”

“Yes, Sir.” Hermione shifts uncertainly under his piercing gaze. She had expected him to be happy about her discoveries, but his expression is indecipherable. “She told me to investigate into Barty Crouch Junior and that the killer had a sort of moniker that he goes by. I can look into them both tomorrow?” She phrases the last part as a question. As much as she hopes not, it’s likely she could be replaced by someone more experienced now that there’s a solid lead.

“And she says has nothing to do with the case?”

“No.”

He hums pensively. “I know Mr Crouch, he’s well respected amongst the law enforcement circles. It would be disrespectful to accuse him of being related to this nasty business, don’t you think, Granger?”

Hermione’s heart sinks. It appears she was right; Riddle no longer wants her on the case.

“Of course, Sir.” She tries to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

“You may investigate into this name, however, if you really think it’s worth it.” Excitement leaps through her; she’s still on the case! “Try and get some other leads though Granger. Something more solid than a _nickname_.”

She nods gratefully in-spite of his slightly derisive tone. She supposes it wasn’t much of a lead for such a high profile case. Riddle probably would have come back with the murder in tow, and she’s got what? A possible nickname the murder’s given themselves? She suddenly feels embarrassed that she ever thought she could inherit his position. “Yes, Sir.”

He turns to his desk, opening a new file. He dips his quill into an ink pot, scribbling something down, before looking at her. “Dismissed, Granger.”

“Oh, yes,” Hermione flushes in embarrassment. “Of course, sorry.” She gets up, wiping her sweaty palms on her dress and turns to leave.

“Keep up the good work, Granger.” She stops with her hand on the door and turns back to face him.

“Thank you, Sir,” Hermione says uncertainly. The praise is very much underserved, and Hermione hated nothing more than someone being praised for doing nothing. “But Lady Parkinson really did most of the work.”

Parkinson had practically handed over this lead, and now, however inadvertently, Hermione was the one claiming the credit when she hadn’t even done anything but listen.

Riddle looks up and purses his lips in a displeased way. The particular brand of bothered annoyance on his face makes her uncomfortably reminiscent of her school days. “Take the praise, Granger.”

“I-“

“Besides, she may be a Lady, but she’s also a vampire. We can’t just trust her on her _word_.” He chuckles darkly as if the very thought is ridiculous. “Just see if you can find any more information from her and report back to me.”

“Okay.” She nods respectfully and calmly turns to leave, but on the inside, her mind is churning. Something feels off here, though Hermione can’t quite put her finger on it.

Why had Parkinson told her about this _Lord Voldemort_ person though? Why would she help the Aurors? From the conversation they’d had, Hermione could already tell that Parkinson wasn’t exactly a fan of wiccans, _especially_ the Aurors. So why would she help them?

And who was this person she was protecting so fiercely? Why did they even need protecting? The fact that they knew about the killer’s moniker didn’t make sense. No one else had so much as a scrap of evidence or information on the case. Accusing Barty Crouch of knowing something about it, when Riddle had told her himself that he was a respectable and trustworthy wizard, made everything weirder still.

Nothing made sense.

She sighs, dumping the file onto her desk with a sigh. Gathering her skirts in front of her, she sits down, pulling her chair in towards the table. She gets her quill out and starts to make notes on the night's investigation and the developments that came from questioning Parkinson.

She’s not even written two lines when Ron appears, Harry ambling after him, his nose buried in his own case file.

”Alright, Mione, how’d it go?” Ron asks.

”It went pretty well,” she says. “I already found a lead.”

Ron cheers. “Well done, Mione, I knew you would.”

Harry looks up, eyes scrunching as he squints at her. “You don’t sound especially happy about that.”

Hermione hums noncommittally.

Ron leans back on her desk and snorts. “Thought you’d be bloody jumping at the chance to impress Riddle.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Hermione says unconvincingly.

“What is it?” Harry asks.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hermione sighs. “Something about this case is starting to feel really weird.”

Harry snorts derisively. “Other than the fact that fifteen vampires have been murdered in less than a week?”

“It’s not just that-“ She stops abruptly as Riddle strides out of his office. She’s never seen him so angry, he’s usually one for cold disdain if something displeases him. She studies him until he fades out of sight.

Turning back to the other two, she notes with a sort of amused exasperation that Harry has already gotten distracted and wandered off somewhere.

Ron, still perched at the end of her desk, gives her a look. “Everything alright, Mione?”

She sighs, waving him off easily. “I’m just being ridiculous, Ron, don’t worry about me.”

He studies her for a moment. He’s shockingly perceptive sometimes, something she had never expected from him when she’d first met him. Not that he used his observational skill on hunts, but he was very much a people person. He could tell when something was wrong with someone. It was one of the reasons she liked working with the two boys so much, they balanced each other out nicely. Harry was the power, Ron the observation, Hermione the logic. Without them on this case with her, she felt herself fumbling around in the dark.

“Well, if you’re sure,” He finally says. “We’re still going three broomsticks tonight, yeah? I need a bloody drink.”

Hermione thinks about Parkinson, how dark and gorgeous and downright confusing she had been. The whole case had her stumped. “Yeah, I could do with a drink.”

* * *

Hermione sips her gin slowly, enjoying and hating the bitter burn in equal measure. The three of them are sat in a booth in the 3 broomsticks, which- despite what the name suggests- isn’t an only-wiccan bar.

Usually, she’d be more focused on the boy’s conversation, but tonight she can’t keep her eyes from straying towards a group of vampires sitting in the booth opposite.

 _Do they feel the same way as Parkinson?_ She wonders. _Were Wiccan’s really as judgemental as she had claimed?_

Taking another idle sip, she almost spits it back out when one of them looks up and locks eyes with her. The pale, dark-haired man frowns and Hermione’s eyes drop, quickly averting her gaze to Ron, who is getting up. He walks out the booth towards the direction of the toilet, leaving her and Harry alone.

“So what was that all about earlier?” Harry asks when a moment of silence falls between them. “Sorry I ran off like that by the way, I thought I had a breakthrough in my case.”

“It’s okay,” A bemused smile graces her lips. “It’s just that... Riddle didn’t seem very happy about my leads,” Hermione says, tracing the edge of her glass idly. “I mean, they weren’t amazing, but I thought it was _something_.”

“I know you don’t agree, Hermione, but the guy’s a dick,” Harry says.

She purses her lips and gives him a disapproving stare. “He’s your boss, Harry. You and Ron ought to give him a little more respect.”

Harry snorts. “Stuck up bastard needs to be knocked down a few pegs.”

Hermione hides a reluctant smile behind her glass. Riddle _was_ a little stuck up, even she had to admit.

Harry continued. “You’ll do great, just keep doing what you always do.”

She grins. “Thanks, Harry.”

“No problem, Mione.” He takes a swing of his beer, finishing it in one gulp. “Another round?”

“Sure,” Hermione agrees. She’s only half-way towards being blind drunk, but intends to get wasted, hoping it will help her get her to stop lingering over the beautiful woman haunting her thoughts.

* * *

It’s one o’clock in the morning by the time Rosemerta gets sick of their drunken antics and kicks everyone out. They stumble out into the cobblestone streets, Hermione stepping as carefully as she can to avoid a large pile of thestral dung.

They only manage to get to the end of the road before an inevitable fight breaks out between two of the other patrons, both grappling at each other and throwing insults.

The commotion catches the attention of everyone in a five-mile radius and before she knows it, a group has gathered around the two men.

The jeering from the crowd spurs them on and one of them throws the first punch. It lands on the other’s nose with a sickening crunch and the sound of flesh hitting flesh resounds through the street.

The three of them run (or in Ron’s case, stagger) over to the scene. Hermione pushes through the crowd, trying to get through to the men and simultaneously grappling in her purse to get her identity papers.

“Stop!” Her shout goes unnoticed, hidden under the jeering and crowing of the crowd.

Her wand is nestled in the sleeves of her dress and she slides it out quickly, as she bursts onto the scene. She reaches up and sends a warning spell into the air. The shot sound reverberates, effectively cutting through the noise. Both men freeze in the act and turn to look at her.

The one on top, who seems to be winning, is a tall dark-haired man. From the telltale bulge on his arm, Hermione guesses he’s a wizard. The other man below is skinnier and pale, a stark contrast from the dark blood covering his face. She can hardly make out his features underneath all the cuts and bruises, but somehow she recognises him as the vampire she had been staring at earlier this evening.

“Get up,” She orders, her wand pointed at them both. It shakes slightly, her coordination ruined by the amount of alcohol in her body. “Now.”

“And why the hell should I take orders from you, _woman?_ ” The dark-haired man snarls.

She narrows her eyes in disgust. “Because,” Pulling her auror papers out the rest of the way and shows them to him, enjoying the way his face goes pale. “I’m an Auror.”

“Fine,” He stands, dusting himself off. He turns to the other man, who is still sprawled out on the floor and spits on him. “You’ll pay for this. Filthy parasite.”

“Hey!” Ron objects. “You can shut up. Unless you want to get in any more trouble?”

The man simply sneers.

“We’re going to have to take both of you in for this,” Harry says as comes up behind her. He reaches towards the man with heavy, thick-chained handcuffs, but before Harry can get his hands on the man, he apparates away.

“Shit!” Harry curses violently, the now-empty air causing him to trip, as he reaches towards nothing. "Fucking hell!"

Hermione stares at the empty space, feeling thrown by the man's quick escape. She turns slowly to deal with the second fighter, only to realise he's run off too, along with all of the other patrons who were only a moment ago gathered around the fighters.

It's just her, Harry and Ron now; standing alone in the silent street.

* * *

The room is boiling. Hermione can’t tell if it’s simply the warm weather or if her body is betraying her to the thoughts she can’t quite shake out of her head.

Parkinson’s face hovers in her mind no matter how many times she forces herself to think about something else. The woman's smouldering eyes and flashing fangs play on repeat as she lays in bed, tossing and turning.

After a moment of indecision, she reaches over and switches on the lamp, swinging her bare legs over the bed.

She pulls on her red silk robe and pads gently down the corridor of her apartment to her office.

Taking out a piece of parchment and a quill, she begins to scribble down everything she knows about the case so far.

 _Okay,_ she thinks, _15 murders in no less than 2 weeks. Clearly done by a vampire by the puncture wounds on the throat of all victims. All victims were also vampires._

It takes her about a minute to write down everything she already knew before tonight. After a moment, she moves to the other side of the paper and begins to list everything else she’d found out.

 _Barty_ _Crouch_ _Junior_ _is_ _somehow_ _involved_. _Riddle: handling that._ She then draws a line and jots down _‘Lord Voldemort’_ at the top of the page. Drawing another line she jots down _‘Unknown source’_ and then feeding on from that; _‘Lady Pansy Parkinson’_.

She sighs in frustration, idly circling her quill around the name. How does she fit into all of this?

Her eyes are drawn back to ‘Lord Voldemort’. Resting her chin on her knuckles, she drums her quill on the paper repeatedly, hoping for an idea to suddenly pop into her head.

Where had this name even come from? How did Parkinson’s source know about it? Who else knew about it? And how was she supposed to find out anything, when she didn’t even know where to start?

* * *

“No luck?” It’s Ron.

After failing to think of a better idea last night, Hermione had decided to start where she always did; the library. She hadn’t expected to find anything much in the books, but she had been hoping there would be a mention of this ‘Lord Voldemort’ in a newspaper or the like. However, her already low expectations were dwindling even further by the minute.

Forehead resting on the table, the only response she can give is a garbled groan, muffled through the layers of her hair that fan around her head. During the three hours she’s spent here, her usual twisted up-do has come undone, and now her unruly locks are a complete mess.

Just like her life. It’s poetic, really.

She lets out another groan. “I thought there would be at least a _mention_ of the name somewhere!”

Ron shrugs, sipping his coffee. “Maybe they just made it up.”

“Maybe.” She agrees easily, her brain too fried to come up with a proper response. Head still on the table, she motions to the array of newspapers and heavy books surrounding her. “I just hoped the paper might have something on it. Parkinson can’t be the only one to know about this bloody nickname.”

“Maybe you should ask her,” Ron suggests.

Hermione’s head lifts for the first time in their conversation. “What?”

“Go and ask her,” Ron says impatiently. “She knows somehow, she must have a source. Just find out what the source is and go from there.”

“I can’t!” Hermione protests.

“Well, why not?”

”She does have a source, but she refused to say who it was.” 

“So go and ask her again.” Ron says, as if it’s just that easy. 

“What would make this time any different? She wouldn’t tell me last time.” 

“Mione, you’re an auror, remember? Convince her.” He ignores Hermione’s doubtful look and powers on. “Besides, even if she doesn’t tell you anything new, you can always stop at Rosmerta’s bar on the way back, to ask her about that man from yesterday. We still need to find both of them, Riddle's adamant about it."

"Okay," Hermione says, her mind made up. "I guess I'm going back."

* * *

It’s a different servant that opens the door tonight; his dark skin and broad shoulders a stark contrast from the fragile, pale girl from before. He bows, stepping back to let her in, going into the light and for the first time, giving her a full view of his face.

She inhales sharply, just managing to smother her gasp, but not quite covering her surprise entirely. The top of his face is covered with scars. They're red raw and remind Hermione distinctly of the vicious slashes that can be made with the sectumsempra charm. His skin is matted and jagged where the cuts cross over his eyes. One of his eyeballs even seems to have caught the brunt of a slice, a thin red mark cutting through the brown iris.

"I- I’m sorry,” Hermione says, guilt swirling in the pit of her stomach. “That was incredibly unprofessional. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

He considers her for a moment. “It’s okay.”

She gets the feeling he's only saying that because he has to. 

"Wand in the box please." He holds it out and she reluctantly leaves her wand there again. She'd been hoping they would forget about the formality this time, but no such luck.

"Come with me," The boy says lowly, and without waiting for her, begins striding down the hallway. 

They follow the same route as before, but Hermione is surprised when he leads her even further through the castle until they reach a door. He leads her through into the largest garden she's ever seen. It's in full bloom and looks wonderfully inviting in the warm afternoon sun. She takes a seat in a chair that rests on a circle of sparkling quartz slabs. 

She inhales deeply, steeling herself with breaths of fresh air. She needs to convince Parkinson to help her, to give away her source; who knew when the killer would strike next? They had no time to waste, and Hermione wasn't going to let anyone else get hurt. 

“Back again so soon?” Parkinson’s voice drawls suddenly. “Why, Granger, I had no idea you enjoyed the other day so much.”

Hermione’s head whips around to see Parkinson standing in the doorway, lounging against the wall in a tight maroon number that makes Hermione’s cheeks warm. It’s fitted beautifully at the top, the two sides of the bodice pulled tight by the corset strings that are clearly visible.

The woman sashays over, her full skirt swaying with every step. Hermione suddenly feels plain and underdressed in her simple navy gown.

“Hello,” Her throat feels unnaturally dry.

”Hello,” Parkinson repeats. “I assume you’re here on business rather than pleasure?” 

The last word resounds through Hemione's head and suddenly her thoughts are filled with all sorts of horribly inappropriate ideas. 

She pictures Parkinson splayed out in front of her, corset unlaced fully to give Hermione a perfect view of soft, pale skin and shell-pink nipples. She imagines her tongue travelling down taut stomach muscles and her hands pulling up those thick skirts to get to the girl’s thighs and then-

“I need to ask you some more questions.” Hermione blurts, surprising both herself and Parkinson. 

”Business it is then.” 

Hermione nods mutely.

“Shame,” Parkinson says. Hermione’s stomach clenches, her body feeling so hot she wouldn’t be surprised if she spontaneously combusted. “Ask away then.”

”How did you know those things?” 

_Eloquent as ever, Hermione,_ she groans at herself internally.

“What things?” Parkinson says.

“You know what things,” Hermione purses her lips impatiently. “I just want to speak to your source.”

“Oh you do, do you?” Parkinson asks in faux interest.

“Yes,” Hermione says. _Otherwise I wouldn’t have asked,_ her mind adds unhelpfully.

Parkinson just looks at her, her stoic expression giving nothing away. Even partially obscured by the rim of the cup, she can see the almost devilish smile that hangs from Parkinson’s lips.

Hermione just wants to lean forward and grabs those rosy lips in between her teeth and tug until they’re puffy, red and even more kissable and-

Her stomach twists and she cringes slightly, trying to banish the inappropriate thoughts from her mind.

What is _wrong_ with her?

“It’s a lovely day today, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Hermione blinks, confused by the sudden change in topic. 

“I thought it might be nice to sit outside today.” 

“It is beautiful, my lady.” Hermione agrees politely.

”Pansy."

"What?"

"Call me Pansy." She smirks.

"Okay." Hermione baulks awkwardly and quickly focuses her eyes on a blooming rose bush a foot away from them. “Did you do all this yourself?” 

Parkinson's eyes follow the direction where she's looking. “Do I really seem the type?” She seems amused by the thought.

"Not really, no."

She hums in agreement and an uncomfortable silence falls between them for a moment.

"My little sister adores it. The gardens are always in bloom because of her.” Her voice is surprisingly warm, and her eyes betray a softness that makes Hermione feel like she's looking at a whole new person. Hermione doesn't quite understand why Parkinson is telling her this, though. 

“You have a sister?” 

“Yes, she’s twelve.” 

Hermione’s brows jump. “How old are you, then?” The query slips past her lips involuntary. She had assumed that most vampires were much older than that, especially within a historically known family. Even though Parkinson looks to be around the same age as Hermione, looks can be deceiving. 

"Four hundred and sixty-three." Her voice is deadpan, leaving Hermione gaping.

"Really?"

"No, not _really_ ," Parkinson laughs bemusedly at her.

“Oh,” Hermione says, the embarrassment making her cringe involuntarily. 

Parkinson puts a hand to her chest, mock offended. "Should I be insulted that you actually believed me?"

"I thought vampires were immortal."

"Wiccans really don't know anything about vampires, do they?"

Hermione fumbles awkwardly with what to say but comes up with nothing.

"That's what I thought."

Guilt swirls in her chest. "I’m sorry."

Parkinson looks surprised for once. "It's not your fault."

"Isn't it though?" Hermione asks.

"Partly, I suppose, for listening to the outlandish rumours about my family."

"Yes," Hermione agrees. “I shouldn’t have listened to it.” Statistically, rumours are almost always false, even if some of it is based on the truth. She should have known better than to judge a book for it’s cover.

“True. But you know better now. That’s what matters.” Parkinson says, before changing the subject back. "But yes, back to what you said before, vampires _are_ immortal. However, when we reach triple digits it does start to show. Quite similar to you wiccans, I suppose."

"Yes, I suppose we’re more similar than I thought." 

“Maybe we are.” Parkinson suddenly draws her gaze down to her cup and the atmosphere between them is shattered. Hermione at once feels strangely bereft without Parkinson’s gaze on her skin. 

There’s a moment of silence that allows Hermione to gather her thoughts and she suddenly remembers why she's here. "Enough of this."

Parkinson bats her eyelashes innocently. “Of what, darling?”

"Of the diversion.” Hermione says. “I came here to discuss the case.” Parkinson stays silent so Hermione powers on. “I’ve been tasked with investigating into the name you gave, but I haven’t been able to find anything.”

“Okay,” Parkinson says begrudgingly. “Where have you been looking?”

“The library.”

She lets out a snort. “The library? I gave you a murder’s moniker and you’ve been looking for it in books? Bloody hell, Granger.”

Hermione’s ears burn. “I didn’t know where else to look!”

“Well, I can tell you right now, you’re looking in the wrong kinds of places, darling.”

“I know.” She admits. “Where should I look then?”

“Don’t ask me, I don’t know.”

“Can you help me?” Hermione knows asking for help is a long shot, but for some reason, she wants Parkinson by her side on this.

”All I know is what I told you.” The other woman hums thoughtfully. “What about the other lead that I gave you?”

“My superior assured me that Mr Crouch was a reputable person and that he would speak to him about the rumours.”

“And your superior is...?” She trails off, prompting for an answer.

“Head Auror Riddle.”

“Right,” Parkinson says. “So, your superior is full of shit then.”

 _“Excuse_ _me?”_

“My source is not wrong. Mr Crouch is related to these murders. Now, your, Mr Riddle may simply not know this man as well as he thinks he does, or he may just simply be choosing to ignore it.”

“He’s Head Auror!” Hermione exclaims. “He would never consort with a criminal! Or cover for one, either!”

Parkinson raises a brow. “Is that so?”

“Yes, it is.” She argues defensively, her volume rising with every word. “Maybe your source isn’t as good as you think it is.”

A sudden blaze of anger sparks in Parkinson’s eyes. “You don’t know of what you speak.” Her low tones are just as angry and cutting as Hemione's shout. 

She suddenly wonders how they got to this point and the fight drains out of her. It's disconcerting; how quickly the tone changes with them but the awkwardness of the situation and the lack of truth doesn't exactly make for calm conversation. “Then explain it to me. Help me to understand, _please_."

"I need to make sure they're protected." Parkison seems uncharacteristically vulnerable as she says this, real concern painted across her delicate features.

“I know,” Hermione allows. "As soon as your ready." She doesn't want to press her luck any further, but she can’t help herself. “Just remember, withholding pertinent information regarding a crime is considered to be a criminal offence.”

Parkinson cracks an amused smile at this, despite the fact that Hermione is attempting to threaten her. “I like this assertive side of you, Granger.”

Hermione blinks owlishly.

"I don't usually take this well to threats, I can assure you, Granger." She grins, and Hermione gets a flash of those deadly sharp fangs again. "I must like you."

Her stomach clenches involuntarily as a flash of heat sparks there. “Um-” For once, she’s at a loss for words.

Pansy chuckles, before standing. “Anyway, are we done here?” 

“Yes, for now.” 

“Is that a promise?” Parkinson flutters her eyelashes ridiculously and then laughs.

Hermione stands and purses her lips, suppressing the small smile that threatens to break through at Parkinson’s antics. She brushes down her dress, picking up the hem delicately as she crosses the lawn. Parkinson follows behind her as they make their way through the house to the front foyer. Once more, she collects her wand and auror’s cloak, which she dons immediately. 

Parkinson nods a goodbye and then turns, slowly making her way up the staircase, her slinky maroon dress swaying in sync with her hips. Hermione’s gaze flickers down, watching Parkinson leave. Her cheeks pink suddenly when she realises what she’s doing and guilty embarrassment floods through her and she makes a quick retreat out of the door.

* * *

The crisp nights air does nothing to cool her heated cheeks. 

It’s now late evening so she begins making her way to her flat, taking the long route that takes her past The Three Broomsticks.

She begins to think as she walks. Most wiccans apparate most places, but Hermione prefers the exercise. Especially when she has such a large case such as this to deal with. 

She’d seen Parkinson in a different light tonight; a softer side that came out when her sister was mentioned. She was also fiercely protective, which, although was irritating in terms of getting the case solved, she would grudgingly admit was impressive. 

She was just so different from anyone Hermione had ever met, layered in multitude of personas; a seductive flirt, a powerful vampire, a protective friend and a doting older sister. 

She’s pulled from her thoughts as the pub comes into view. From the outside it looks tiny, the narrow black entrance tricking the outsider. 

The sign, accented with a golden painting of a broomstick, that hangs above the door creaks ominously as it swings. 

She steps inside, cringing when the noise hits her. It’s incredibly busy tonight, and she struggles to make her way through the strung of people to get to the bar.

“Hermione?” Rosmerta spots her as she hovers behind the counter. “You alright, darling?”

”Hello Rosmerta.” 

“Drink?” A glass is offered. 

Hermione shakes her head. “I’m working, I’m afraid.” 

”Alright, love. What’s this about then?” 

“It’s about the other night.”

”Oh yes,” Rosmerta rolls her eyes. “Bloody disgraceful is what it is. But, I suppose that’s the way it always is when people have too much to drink. Comes with the job description, unfortunately.”

”True. But we’ve still been ordered to try and track the two men down, take them for questioning.”

Rosmerta hums. “What’s that gonna do? They’ve already had the fight, and you lot sorted it out right and proper.”

”I know.” Hermione sighs. “Part of the job description, I guess.”

Rosmerta returns a chuckle. “Stealing my lines now, are we?” 

Hermione grins. She’s always liked the barmaid; her, Ron and Harry have made frequent visits to the Three Broomsticks over the years, especially during their training year, so she’d gotten to know Rosmerta pretty well. 

”You got a picture or something that you want to show round? You can ask anyone here if they know the boys.” She suggests. 

“Oh, yes,” she fumbles in her bag. “Here.” She slides them over the counter into Rosmerta’s waiting hand. 

She studies them quickly before dismissing them. “Sorry, love, neither were regulars.”

”It’s okay,” Hermione shrugs. “I’ll ask around.”

She gets up, her skirts brushing against the dusty floor. Making her way around the room, she asks almost every patron. Most say they don’t recognise either of the men immediately; others- the drunker patrons- spend ages squinting at the photos, only to scratch their head and give her the same result of absolutely no leads. 

Annoying as it is, it doesn’t bother her too much that she leaves the tavern unsuccessful. 

It’s more strange than anything else; not one person being able to identify the men in the entire jam-packed pub, however it’s a large town and the case isn’t exactly pressing compared to the other one she’s dealing with so her bad feeling doesn’t dwell for long. 

* * *

Hermione goes into the office the next morning to find her department is almost empty. Checking her watch, she reaffirms that is it indeed 7 am, and that she's not too early.

Where _is_ everyone?

She settles into her desk, still craning her neck, hoping to catch sight of anyone else in her department. Theft, Magical Justice and Improper Use of Magic are all here. 

Frowning, she pulls out the case file from her drawers and tosses her notepad onto the desk, settling in to do some work.

"Mione!" It's Harry. "Hermione!"

"Hey, Harry-" She stops short when she catches sight of his face. "What's wrong?" She can feel herself getting increasingly agitated.

"You know those men we were trying to find? From the bar?"

She nods, still not quite understanding what is occurring here.

"Well, we've found one of them."

"Really?” She asks. “Oh, well that's good news, isn't it?"

He grimaces and passes her a file that she's only just realised he's been holding. "It's the vampire."

Hesitantly, she takes the folder from his grip and flips it open. The papers almost slide out and she juggles to catch them. 

She flattens the parchment on her desk and scans the page. It’s only a form that aurors use to record data, but, looking at it now, a strange sense of dread makes her chest tighten uncomfortably. 

_Name: Marcus Flint_

_State: Deceased ~~/Alive/Injured~~_

_If deceased, record date of death: 24th September 1864_

_If ~~injured, record injuries:~~_

_~~If alive, record issue:~~ _

_Cause of death: blood loss_

_Notes: corpse found in Knockturn Alley, drained of blood with two puncture wounds to the throat._

_You’ll pay for this._ The wizard's words ring through her mind. _Filthy parasite._

"We need to find the wizard." She's certain he has something to do with this.

Harry nods. “Agreed. It’s the only lead we’ve got to go on right now. Come on, everyone else is already in the briefing room.” 

She follows him into the large office, cringing when she see’s all the other aurors are already seated at the table. “Sorry I’m late, Sir.” 

Riddle ignores her, so she takes a seat silently next to Ron. 

“Weasley, Granger and Potter, since you were all present during the altercation between Mr Flint and the unknown wiccan, you can all visit to the records room and see if you can dig up anything there.”

“Yes, Sir.” Harry replies for them all. 

Riddle continues. “Pettigrew, you’re with them.” 

Harry barely stifles his groan of dismay, and Hermione, though she shares similar sentiments, feels tempted to elbow him. 

He turns to the others. “Smith, Boot, you two do a search of the area; if he was at the Three Broomsticks, he nay live in the area. Diggory, Chang, my office, I have another case for you.” 

As soon as Riddle is finished giving the commands, he gathers his papers and exits, leaving everyone else behind.

Pettigrew sidles up to the three of them. “Shall we get started then?”

”Yes, Sir.”

“Okay.” He turns and begins to shuffle along the corridor, his head bowed as he leads them to the records room. 

* * *

Ron lets out his fifth groan of the last minute. ”This is bloody torture.”

Hermione tuts at him. “It’s not _that_ bad, Ronald. We’ve only got-” She leans over to count the boxes and sighs when she realises how many there are to go. Maybe Ron was right, this is agonising. “...Sixteeen to go.” 

“Sixteen? Fucking hell.” He groans into his hands.

They’d been in the records room for the past two hours and had found nothing. Where Hermione would normally enjoy reading, even she was getting bored. 

“How many bloody files can one place have?” Harry asks. 

“It is the records room for the entire auror department, Harry. All the criminal files we’ve ever done are here.” 

Harry ignores her. “What’s the odds he’s even in here anyway? It could be his first offence.” 

“Exactly!” Ron says. 

Hermione rolls her eyes and picks herself up, grabbing another box of files. This one is labelled ‘1831’. She riles through quickly, only checking the photo and names of each convict before moving onto the next. 

She flips open the case, easily dismissing it after a quick scan of the photo and name. She’s about to slot it back into the box when her brain catches up and she freezes.

Did that really say what she thought it did?

Ignoring the twin looks of confusion that she earns from Harry and Ron, she scrambles back to the file, flipping it back open.

Merlin. She _was_ right.

_Name: Thomas Riddle Sr._

_State: Deceased ~~/Alive/Injured~~_

_If deceased, record date of death: 1st March 1831_

_If ~~injured, record injuries:~~_

_~~If alive, record issue:~~ _

_Cause of death: Blood summoning curse_

_Notes: Found by son, Tom Marvolo Riddle_

Merlin, that was awful. And Riddle had found the body. She even begin to imagine what that must have been like. 

Scanning the page idly, a frown creases her brows. What was a blood summoning curse? She’d never heard of such a spell, though, she could take an educated guess at what it was like. Probably similar to how a vampire drains it’s victims. 

She shudders. Poor Riddle. 

Guilt floods her as she thinks of Riddle; she shouldn’t be reading this. He hadn’t told her about this, and there was likely a reason for that. She closes the file and goes to slip it back into the box, when some more parchment slips out onto the floor.

_Name: Mabel Riddle_

_State: Deceased ~~/Alive/Injured~~_

_If deceased, record date of death: 1st March 1831_

_If ~~injured, record injuries:~~_

_~~If alive, record issue:~~ _

_Cause of death: Blood summoning curse_

_Notes: Found by grandson, Tom Marvolo Riddle_

She suddenly realises that this isn’t just the death record of Riddle Sr; but rather the file of a serial killer case from over thirty years ago. 

_Name: Johnathan Riddle_

_State: Deceased ~~/Alive/Injured~~_

_If deceased, record date of death: 1st March 1931_

_If ~~injured, record injuries:~~_

_~~If alive, record issue:~~ _

_Cause of death: Blood summoning curse_

_Notes: Found by grandson, Tom Marvolo Riddle._

This so called ‘blood summoning curse’ intrigued her. She couldn’t understand why she’d never heard of it.

She picks up the final piece of parchment, expecting it to be another of Riddle’s family members. When it’s not, she feels relieved. She hopes he has some family left, after such an ordeal. 

_Name: Marvolo Gaunt_

_State: Deceased ~~/Alive/Injured~~_

_If deceased, record date of death: 1st March 1931_

_If ~~injured, record injuries:~~_

_~~If alive, record issue:~~ _

_Cause of death: Blood summoning curse_

_Notes: Lived opposite to the Riddle’s who were presumably attacked by the same killer._

She does a double take. _Marvolo_. Where had she heard that name before?

She flips back through the file and scans the other parchments. She’s sure she’s just seen it.

 _Found by Tom_ Marvolo _Riddle._

Well, that was odd. Why did Riddle have the same name as his neighbour? What did this mean?

Something wasn’t adding up here. 

”Mione?” Harry’s voice breaks her from her thoughts. “You almost done over there?”

She suddenly feels incredibly foolish, obsessing over Riddle’s middle name and a case that had gone cold before she was even born.

Not to mention that it was a huge invasion of Riddle’s past, one that she did not have a right to investigate. He must have kept it secret for a reason and if he didn’t want her to know, it wasn’t her place. 

Hermione shakes her head, rolling her eyes at her over active imagination. It had nothing to do with the case, so why worry about it? 

“Yes, I’m done with this box, pass me that last one would you, please?”

”Onit.” He slides across the only unopened box into her waiting hands.

”Thanks.” She opens it up and gets back to work. 

* * *

“Granger!” Hermione’s head whips up from the parchment she’s writing on, to see Riddle’s head leaning out of his office door. “My office please.”

Anxiety immediately spikes in her as she takes in his irritated tone, matching with the look of contempt on his face. She drops her quill into her inkwell and picks up her notepad, ready to debrief Riddle on the case if needs be.

Not that there’s much to update him on.

Since visiting Parkinson Manor last night, there hadn’t been an opportunity to look any further into the case, what with all of the commotion this morning. As well as that, Hermione was now waiting for Parkinson to agree to her request and tell her who her source was. Apart from that, she had nothing.

It didn’t look great.

And, on top of that, she now knew about his past trauma, without his consent, and she couldn’t help seeing him differently now. She just hoped he wouldn’t see through it. 

”Granger.” She shuts the door closed with a click.” Have a seat, please.”

”Thank you, Sir.” 

He laces his fingers together and leans forwards. “So, how is the case coming along?”

She studies his face- it was so similar to his fathers. There is an awkward pause before Hermione realises she’s been asked a question. ”Well, I think.”

”You think?”

Hermione shifts. “I looked into the name Lord Voldemort, but-”

“Where?” Riddle cuts in. 

”What?” 

“Where did you look?” He seems antsy all of a sudden.

”Um-” She blushes as she recalls Parkinson’s ridicule. “The library?” 

For a moment, Riddle’s face morphs from his blank expression into something that almost looks like victory, but it’s gone almost as soon as it appears. “And did you find anything?” 

Hermione stares for a moment and then shakes herself. She was probably just imagining things. “No, Sir. I couldn’t find anything, so I went to visit Lady Parkinson again.”

”And?”

”She’s incredibly protective but I think I may be able to get her source soon, if I keep trying.” 

“Good.” Riddle says. “As soon as you know the source, make me aware. I want to know their name and where they live so, if needs be, I can step in.” 

“Of course, Sir.” 

“You may leave now.” Riddle gathers the papers covering his desk and drops them into a small pile, already beginning his work as he pulls one sheet off of the top and dips his quill. 

“Sir.” Hermione bows her head and turns to leave. 

“Oh, and Granger?”

She freezes where she stands, her hand on the doorknob. ”Yes?”

”Come back with nothing again and I’ll have you permanently assigned to desk work, okay?”

She swallows, a lump in her throat. “Yes, Sir.” 

* * *

Visiting the Manor again seems an unlikely way to get Parkinson to agree to her terms, so she decides to send a letter in her stead. 

In the grand scheme of things, she doubts it hardly matters _how_ she asks- Parkinson seems to do things how she wants in her own time- but she has to try anyway. Riddle is getting more antsy by the minute to get this case solved- and now she knows why. 

Practically his whole family had been murdered by a serial killer. That was probably the whole reason why he became an auror. 

He’s likely as desperate as her to catch this killer, if not more so. She had to do this, and quickly.

Rejuvenated with a new sense of determination, she grabs her inkwell and parchment and begins to write. 

_Dear Lady Parkinson,_

~~_How are you?_ ~~

_I hope you are well._

~~_I'm writing because_ ~~

_I'm writing to inquire about when_

She groans in frustration and screws the parchment into a ball. She tosses it into the bin and pulls out a fresh piece of parchment. 

_Dear ~~Lady Parkinson, Pansy,~~ Lady Parkinson,_

Tapping her quill against her mouth, she wonders what to write. What can she even say? Their relationship is tumultuous, to say the least. They’re not exactly friends. But there’s a connection there between them, something that draws Hermione to Pansy and Pansy to her. She feels safe with Parkinson, but challenged at the same time. It’s nice, for once, to feel challenged by someone else in her life. Her friends and family, of course, bicker with her and tell her when they think she’s in the wrong, but never to the extent that Parkinson does. She calls Hermione out on everything she disagrees with and is unapologetic in making people uncomfortable by discussing the reality of things. It’s refreshing. And admittedly incredibly admirable. 

After another failed attempt, she gives up writing and decides to push her thoughts elsewhere. 

She doesn’t feel much like staying in an empty flat all night, so she decides to go to the public library that is nestled in a back alley behind the town square.

Her mind has been so wrapped up in this case lately, she hasn’t had time to think about anything else and it’s driving her crazy. She needs to do something normal again, get her thoughts away from bloodshed and killers and onto something a little lighter. If she wants to impress Riddle enough to get a promotion, she isn’t going to do it by burning herself out.

She also wants to research more into this blood summoning curse. 

The thought of finding a new spell excites her, although her joy is dampened by the fact that it is likely a dark magic spell.

Hermione walks over to the spells section and gets out her wand. “ _Quaerere_ blood summoning.”

Where a couple of books usually fly out all at once, only one book floats out from the top shelf, nestled away in the corner. It flies into her hands, making her sneeze when it drops because of the amount of dust covering it.

”Ugh,” she sneezes again. “ _Scourgify_.”

The dust lifts off immediately to reveal the title: _Curses and other banned magic, by Galatea Merrythought._

Banned magic. That must be it. Why she’d never heard of the curse; it was banned- likely because of the Riddle and Gaunt murders. 

Turning the pages idly, she scans each page, soaking up every bit of information she could find. It was incredibly intriguing- seeing the amount of spells she’d never even heard of. Ones that had once been wildly popular and commonly used. Of course, all of them were banned for a reason, similar to the three unforgivable curses, but she’d heard of them. 

She’s almost read the entirety of the novel when she finally reaches a page on blood magic. Sitting up straighter, her eyes flit across the page in search of the curse. 

_The blood summoning curse, which shall not be named due to the redaction of the spell, is a curse that_ _mirrors the vampiric._

 _First created by Dr Lestrange for medical procedures, the spell was_ _originally used within St Mungo’s hospital to aid with cases of internal bleeding._

_However, it was removed from all curriculums and banned in 1831, after the spell was used in a killing spree which killed four people (See index for more.) by increasing the blood loss with the use of the ‘maximus’ spell._

_Once cursed, the victim will immediately begin to lose their blood. The wand holder may choose how much blood is extracted, from where and where the body goes (once taken from the body) by simply speaking their command aloud after performing the spell._

_As previously mentioned, this curse is similar in how a vampire would drink from a body, and it was the case that in 1831, the bodies were all completely drained, allowing the still-uncaught-killer to copy the skills of a vampire with a simple spell._

The book continues for a few more pages but Hermione doesn’t bother. 

She’s find out more than she needed.

She sits back, numb with shock. The murderer could be a wiccan. After all this time, she’d been searching in the wrong corner. 

Before, she had thought the fact that this case was a serial killer was enough to make Riddle antsy but she realised now, that that wasn’t the reason at all. The killer could be using the same banned curse that killed Riddle’s family all those years ago. 

It might not be a vampire after all. 

_Parkinson,_ Hermione’s mind immediately flies to the other woman. _Had she known? Did her source know if it was a wiccan or a vampire?_

_“You’re focused on the vampires, but there are other forces at work here.”_

Pansy’s words ring through her head. 

She probably had known- why else would she say that? Parkinson had hinted from the very start that she didn’t think it was a vampire, but Hermione had been too dim too take notice.

She stands, quickly waving the book back to it’s place on the shelf and grabbing her cloak before striding out the door. 

_Fuck_ the letter, she was going to get answers. 

* * *

She apparates straight outside the door with a loud crack.

She bangs on the door a few times and then steps back, tapping her foot impatiently as she waits outside. The wind is strong and her dress whips around her body. She shivers and suddenly wishes she’d stopped for a second and thought to bring a cloak.

Her anger is almost simmering now, calmed by the few moments waiting in the cold. However, as soon as the door swings open, she’s reminded of her first visit and annoyance spikes. It had been so long since her first visit and Parkinson had yet to tell her anything straight. 

“Miss?” The girl asks, her pale face looking up at her in confusion. Hermione takes a step forwards, pushing through into the hall. “Miss-”

“Parkinson!” Hermione shouts. Her raised voice echoes through the hallways. “Parkinson.” 

“Miss! You can’t just-”

Hermione fixes her with a withering glare that shuts her up immediately. “Parkinson!”

”I thought I told you to call me Pansy?” The seductive drawl comes from above and Hermione cranes her neck to see Parkinson strolling casually down the stairs. 

The casual tone inflames her anger even more. “Are you serious right now?” 

Parkinson looks shocked, for once, but Hermione ignores it. “Calm down, darling, stop making such a fuss.” 

“You knew!” 

“Whatever are you talking about?” It seems genuine. Huh. Hermione is taken aback by the honest confusion in her voice. 

”It’s a wiccan.” 

Understanding dawns in her eyes. “Ah,” she smiles. “Finally. Well done, Hermione.”

” _Finally?_ ” Hermione says, aghast.

”Yes. I was waiting for you to come to that conclusion.” 

“ _What?_ Why didn’t you tell me this _weeks_ ago?” Hermione is furious. “Why would you keep this from me?”

Parkinson folds her arms and raises a brow. “Right, and you would have believed me if I’d told you so the very first time we met?”

”Maybe.” She raises her chin defiantly.

Parkinson sighs. “Do you really believe that?” The resignation in her expression cools Hermione’s temper instantly and her defence crumbles.

“I guess not,” She admits. “I probably wouldn’t have.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I would have told you if I’d know it would be this catastrophic.” Parkinson looks genuinely regretful and Hermione’s heart warms slightly. 

”No, it’s okay. You were right.” Hermione feels a burning shame that threatens to climb out of her throat. It feels tight. “I’m the one who should be apologising.”

Parkinson makes her way down the rest of the stairs from where she’s standing and gently takes ahold of Hermione’s wrist. “It’s alright. You know now, and that’s what matters. It’s what I’ve been waiting for. You can meet him now.”

”Him?”

Parkinson’s loops her arm through Hermione’s and pulls her through into the house. “My source.” 

* * *

They come to a door at the end of the hall and Parkinson puts a hand against Hermione’s chest, stopping her from going any further. 

“Wait here for a second, please.” Parkinson says. “I know I said that I was waiting on you to figure it out, but was still telling the truth about protecting him.”

Hermione smiles in what she hopes she conveys understanding. ”Okay.”

Parkinson turns around and knocks, pushing the door open when a voice resounds from within. “Blaise, darling?”

”Pansy?” A male voice from inside says. 

”Yes, it’s me. With the auror.”

”Granger?” Hermione starts at the sound of her name being called, until she realises that the question is not directed at her. 

“Yes, her.” Parkinson’s cheeks flush and she avoids Hermione’s questioning eyes. 

“Invite her inside then,” the boys says. “We might as well get this over with.”

* * *

Hermione steps inside and Parkinson leaves, shutting the door behind her with a muffled click. 

A boy is seated by the fire, his back to her. She takes the armchair next to his and sits down. Looking to the side she realises it’s the servant from her last visit, the white scars across his eyes standing out starkly against his brown skin. 

“Granger?”

”Um- hello.” Hermione says, voice filled with uncertainty. “You’re the witness?”

”Yes. I was the one to see him,” Zabini says. His eyes wander around the room, not focusing on anything. “And he took my eyes for it. I didn’t even know who he was, but it was an extra precaution. I guess he just couldn’t take the risk of being recognised by me.”

“Saw who?”

“Who do you think?” A dark look clouds his face. “Lord Voldemort.”

Her heart pounds so loudly she’s certain he can hear it. “How do you know it was him?”

“I heard one of them call him ‘Lord Voldemort’. Another called him ‘Sir’.”

“There were others? Who? How many people were with him?”

“I don’t know, but there were two of them.” 

Hermione hums.

Her head lifts suddenly as an idea strikes her. “Was one of them Barty Crouch Junior?” She asks, suddenly remembering the second lead. “Or did Lady Parkinson get that information from elsewhere?”

“No, that was me,” Blaise shakes his head. “He was one of the men.”

“How do you know for certain it was him?” Hermione asks. She tries not to make it too obvious why she’s asking, but a slight hint of disbelief makes it’s way into her voice. She can’t help but remember how convinced Riddle was and- even though he wasn’t the nicest boss- he was head auror of the criminal act division; he wouldn’t be fooled by anyone. 

“After-” His voice breaks and Hermione feels a sudden, indescribable rage at the person behind this. “After- he did this to me, he- one of his followers started-“ He takes a deep breath. “One of his followers, he started _laughing_.“ Zabini spits the word in disgust. “Loudly, as if I wasn’t laying in a pool of my own blood. And the man, Lord Voldemort, he got angry, told the man to ‘shut up’ or he’d do the same to him.” 

“Merlin.” Hermione breathes out, feeling sickened. 

Zabini ignores her and carries on. “After that he left, but not before he threatened the man again, calling him by his name- Crouch.” Zabini says.

“I’m so sorry.” Hermione breathes. 

”Unless you’re the bastard who did this to me I don’t want your fucking apologies.” Zabini says. “No offence.”

She supposes that’s fair. “None taken.”

He settles for a moment and doesn’t bother adding anything more so she takes the opportunity to steer the interrogation towards the killer’s appearance. 

The killer appearance. It feels almost surreal to be asking about such a trivial thing. It makes her feel like she’s almost there, as if she can see the end of this all. “Can you tell me anything else you remember? What did he look like?”

”He was tall- taller than me, I would say- with dark, curly hair.” He says. “He was wearing a cloak with gold stitches,” Zabini’s brows furrow. “And- It had this fancy crest on the left side of the cloak.”

She hums. “Okay, and what did the crest look like?” 

“It was a large golden ‘M’ with a little ‘A’ underneath.” 

Hermione stops breathing. Her quill wavers where she holds it and the ink begins to drip onto the page, spreading over her notes like a virus. “What did you just say?” 

“The crest. It was a golden ‘M’ with little ‘A’. Inside of a circle, if that matters.” He adds. 

She stares blankly at him. “That’s not possible.” It comes out hoarse, barely audible. 

“I’m just telling you what I saw.” Zabini says, his lips pursing irritably.

An auror. 

_How could this be true?_ The feeling of denial is almost instantaneous. 

_But why would he lie?_ The second question follows just as quickly. 

“Tell me now if you’re lying and I’ll let you off.” Deep down she knows he’s telling the truth, but can’t help but ask, desperate for him to be wrong. 

“I’m not.” He denies.“Why would I lie about some stupid crest? It doesn’t matter to me- I don’t even know what that crest means. And clearly it does mean something, or you wouldn’t have reacted so badly.”

She curses herself for being so transparent. “Is there anything else you can tell me about that night?”

”No, I think that’s all of it.”

“Okay.” Hermione goes to leave when a hand grasps onto her dress, stopping her short. “Thank you for your time.” She’s going through the motions, trying to keep herself together until she leaves this house. _Then_ she can begin to panic.

It was an auror. 

It must be someone she knew. 

“Granger, wait.”

She pauses. “Yes?”

“I know you have no reason to believe me but everything I’ve told you tonight is true. This ‘Lord Voldemort’ is a danger to my kind. You need to catch him. For all our sakes.”

“I believe you.” She’s telling the truth. It’s too farfetched that they’d go to all this trouble just to lie- if they had wanted to frame an auror they could have done this weeks ago. If they were the real killers they would have told her this weeks ago to cover their trails and avert suspicion. “And I will. I swear it.”

* * *

As soon as she leaves the room she slams the door behind her and sinks against it, leaning her whole weight there. Tears brim at the edge of her lids, threatening to fall. It’s too much. The killer is someone she knows, someone she works with everyday, trusts and possibly cares for. 

It’s hard to imagine. 

“Hermione?” Parkinson asks.

Hermione’s eyes fly open at the sound of her voice. She sniffles and hurries to wipe her face clean. “Parkinson.” Her voice crackles embarrassingly. 

“Are you okay?”

In the face of such a simple, honest question, her strength breaks down as she finds herself unable to lie. ”Not really no.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“They’re an _auror_.” It spills out without her consent. “I feel like I can’t trust anyone.”

Her hand suddenly feels warm and she almost flinches in surprise when she realises what it is. Parkinson’s hand is covering hers comfortingly, and, for once, the woman’s face is wiped clean of any teasing. Her eyes shine with caring, raw and honest. “You can trust me.”

And Hermione believes her. 

“It’s someone I work with. Someone I see almost everyday is a murderer.” She feels queasy.

”I know.”

”I’m scared.” She admits, finally, her voice small.

”I know,” Parkinson’s tone is warm and comforting. “Me too. And that’s why we need to help each other to put stop this thing.” 

“Okay. What should we do?”

”For now? Nothing.”

”But-”

”No buts.” Parkinson says firmly. “You need sleep. We can think about this tomorrow.” 

”No I don’t.” As if on command to disprove her point, she yawns loudly. 

Parkinson raises an unimpressed brow, but says nothing. 

“Oh, shut up.” 

Parkinson’s lip quivers with suppressed laughter. “I didn’t say a thing, darling.” 

“Whatever.” She pouts. 

“Don’t be a baby.” Parkinson teases. 

Hermione crosses her arms. “I’m not!”

“Fine, if you want to act like a child then you can be treated like one.” Parkinson smirks and then reaches behind to snake her arms around Hermione’s back and under her thighs, lifting her up in one smooth motion. 

Hermione gapes, her feet dangling in the air. “Put me down!”

Part of her begrudgingly impressed by Pansy’s strength, but the other half- which is infuriatingly turned on- is winning out. Her eyes lock with Parkinson’s and she blinks slowly, unmoving. Silence fills the space around them like a blanket. 

Parkinson just laughs. “Or what?”

Hermione says nothing. She stares at Parkinson with bated breath. Her eyes flicker up and down Parkinson’s face- never lingering anywhere too long- switching between stealing glances at her eyes and her lips. 

Slate grey eyes stare back at her. If she squints she can see tiny flecks of blue and green. 

“Do you want to stay the night?” Parkinson asks suddenly. 

Hermione feels her eyes bulge. “ _What_?”

Parkinson’s eyes widen in response to her reaction. She coughs loudly as her cheeks flush. “I mean- I was just- I just meant because it’s quite late, I wondered if you’d like to stay in a spare room here?”

“Oh!” Hermione says, her own embarrassment staining her cheeks. “Um- okay. Thank you.” 

Parkinson coughs and tears her eyes too the floor. She lowers Hermione to the floor gently. ”You- uh- you’re welcome.” 

Hermione lets out an awkward sounding laugh that’s too loud to be casual. “Okay.”

Parkinson nods and almost trips on her haste to open the door. 

Hermione follows, a whirlwind of emotions beating through her mind. She guesses she’s staying the night.

* * *

It’s Monday morning when she next walks into the office, her head held high and smile plastered on despite the fear that she feels.

The morning after she had stayed at the Manor, she and Parkinson had discussed at length all of the possible suspects. It hadn’t gotten them very far- Hermione was only sure about completely and blindly trusting two people. Parkinson hadn’t been entirely convinced anyway, which Hermione had grudgingly admitted was fair enough since she had never met Harry nor Ron.

The rest of the aurors she either didn’t know, or didn’t trust completely. She _had_ ruled out some others as unlikely, but she couldn’t let herself be blinded by the fact she had know many of these people at school- these last few days had proven to Hermione that nothing should be out ruled. 

So she goes to work as normal, politely greeting everyone that she sees as she normally would, as if nothing has changed. 

However, her strong facade begins to crumble the moment she reaches her desk, as she sees note requesting her presence in Riddle’s office immediately. How is she supposed to lie to him about something this big? Should she even lie? Why not tell the truth?

She takes a deep breath, drops the notes and makes her way over to the office. She knocks on the door. 

”Come in.” His voice is muffled through the thick door.

Faking confidence, she strides inside and takes her normal seat opposite Riddle. “You asked to see me sir?”

”Yes, I wanted an update on the case.” He says, pursing his lips impatiently. “I was rather hoping after Friday’s meeting you would have found something.” 

“No, sorry, Sir.” Her gaze drops to the floor. She hopes he sees this as shame rather than her attempt to disguise her dishonesty. 

“Shame,” Riddle tsks. “I would have liked to give you that promotion, as well.”

Her heart almost stops. What is he trying to suggest?

Is it a threat? Or is he trying to blackmail her? 

_Don’t be ridiculous,_ she scolds herself, _he doesn’t even know, he’s probably just disappointed in you._

“I’m sorry, Sir.” She doesn’t know what else to say. “I promise I’m working on it.”

”Fine. You’re dismissed, Granger.”

She nods, relief flooding into her.

Two days ago she would have been devastated by Riddle’s comment, but now all she can think about is her relief that she got away with lying to him.

She slips back into the main office, her heart pounding. She just lied to Riddle. 

Merlin, what was she thinking? Shouldn’t she trust him above all else? Was she really going to team up with a vampire she’d only know for two weeks over the head auror?

She almost runs back inside and spills everything, but something stops her. 

_“The crest. It was a golden ‘M’ with little ‘A’. Inside of a circle, if that matters.”_

The murderer was a wiccan. An auror. She couldn’t trust somebody just because they were an auror anymore. 

She forces her feet forwards, through the office until she gets to her desk. Sitting down she pulls out a file that had been dropped on her desk. 

It’s the autopsy report from the Flint murder.

_Autopsy report for: Marcus Flint_

_Age: 24_

_Time of death: 2.p.m, 24th September 1864_

_Cause of death: The blood was drained from the body. Suspected vampire kill._

Oh _shit_. 

* * *

Again, she apparates right outside of the Manor’s front doors. It’s Parkinson who opens the door for once, dressed only in a dark green nightdress, her shoulders covered by a silver silk over gown that falls to the floor. 

She looks beautiful.

”Um-” Hermione stammers, her eyes stuck staring at Parkinson. 

Parkinson doesn’t even seem to notice Hermione’s sudden loss of common sense and frowns in confusion. “What are you doing here?” 

“Hello to you too.” Hermione says bemusedly, gathering her wits.

“Hello.” Parkinson gives her a rare genuine smile and her face lights up.

“Sorry I should have told you I was coming.”

Parkinson snorts. “Since when have you done that?” 

“We’ve another case on our hands. Marcus Flint. I think he was killed by a wiccan with the same spell as all of the other murders.” 

“I’ve heard of that.” Parkinson says. “Some of my subjects told me about that. They didn’t mention that it was our killer though?”

“The autopsy only just got released to us today, so the press won’t get ahold of it until at least tomorrow afternoon.” 

“Right.” Parkinson hums. “What did it say?”

“Not much. Just the same as what’s been written in the files of the other victims. All their blood drained, two teeth marks on the neck.” Hermione sighs. Of course, they now know those teeth marks are a result of magic, rather than a vampire’s fang. “It has to be the same man.” 

“It is likely that it is, yes. Unless it’s a copycat.”

Hermione groans and buries her face in her hands. “Don’t fucking say that.”

”I didn’t know you had it in you to curse!” Parkinson chuckles, delighted.

“Desperate times.” She jokes.

”I like it.” Parkinson winks. 

“Er-”Hermione flounders momentarily. “So what are we going to do?”

For a moment Hermione thinks Parkinson looks disappointed, but the expression clears quicker than it appears. 

Parkinson gestures at her. “You can take the lead here, _Auror_.”

”Okay,” Hermione releases a breath. “Going on the assumption that the murders and the Flint case are related, the best way to find the killer is through the victim right?”

Parkinson’s eyes gleam. “Right.”

”So maybe you could- maybe ask your subjects if any of them have had any altercations with wiccans recently?” She suggests. 

Parkinson straightens, her dress shifting as she leans forwards. “Yes actually. A girl- Astoria- is staying in the east wing, under my protection because she fears that what happened to Flint will happen to her after she had a fight with a wiccan.”

The corner of her lips turn down. Poor girl. This was awful. Hermione suddenly feels a huge amount of guilt- if she was smarter maybe 

As if Parkinson can read her mind, she clasps Hermione’s hand in one of her own, using the other to lift Hermione’s chin up. “This is not your fault, Hermione, you hear me?”

She nods, lips pressed tightly together to contain any protests- Parkinson doesn’t seem like she wants to hear them. 

“So, continue the plan, please.”

“Okay.” Hermione smoothes her hair down nervously. “Do you think she’d be willing to be the bait?”

* * *

Hermione ducks her head, keeping her face covered from the passerby’s. When she looks back up, the man is nowhere to be seen. She cranes her neck desperately trying to catch sight of the man or of Astoria. 

She quickens her pace, pushing past the crowds. Her wand is drawn and held tightly out in front of her. She ignores how it shakes in her trembling hands. She’s so close to him she can almost taste it. So close to someone who has killed so many times, and could likely easily kill her too. 

The anxiety is eating her alive. 

She bursts through the edge of the crowd into an empty street. She stands, looking around helplessly for a moment, before she catches sight of the hem of a cloak disappearing around the corner. 

She begins to run, her heart pumping furiously in her chest. She couldn’t let him harm Astoria. She wouldn’t let it happen.

She turns the corner and catches sight of the killer. She can only see his back, covered by the black regulation auror robes. It makes her furious. 

She creeps forwards, muffling the sound of her shoes with a whispered _muffliato._ Astoria is on her back, crowded onto the cobblestone street, the man’s wand pressed against her throat. She catches sight of Hermione and almost gasps, but catches herself, just in time. Hermione tiptoes closer, trying to get a better vantage to get her wand against his throat. A pool of dark red liquid catches her eye and she closes her eyes. He’s already started the curse- she just hopes it won’t be too late to save her. It was Hermione who got her into this, it’ll be her fault if Astoria doesn’t make it out of this alive. 

She presses her wand to the back of his neck. “Drop the wand. Turn around and put your hands in the air.” She hopes he can’t tell that her hands are shaking. 

His wand clatters to the floor and he turns reluctantly to face her. 

“Hood off.” She orders.

He reaches up with pale long fingers to peel back the hood of the cloak that covers his face to reveal the ageing, handsome and _familiar_ face that she knows all too well. 

Her wand almost drops from her grasp. 

“Riddle?” The word barely escapes from her throat. 

His head flashes up, and he catches sight of her. His face falls into a look of vicious rage. “Granger.” He spits the word like a curse. 

“It’s you.” She whispers numbly. “You- I- how can this be? You’re head auror! You’re supposed to be fighting people like this!” 

Riddle takes advantage of her shock to disarm her. “I guess the game is up.” He chuckles darkly. “No matter, I can kill you later, I might as well admit it. He brandishes his arms proudly, spraying blood everywhere from his soaked cloak sleeves. “I am Lord Voldemort.”

”But you- you told me to investigate into Voldemort!” She accuses, her mind whirling.

This couldn’t be true. What was happening?

Riddle rolls his eyes. ”The only reason I picked you, Granger, was because I knew you wouldn’t be able to solve it.”

“ _What_?” Her mind is whirling. 

“I’ll admit, things didn’t exactly go to plan,” He sighs, as one would over a spilt pint of milk. “Especially when Karkaroff made the idiotic mistake of killing a bloodsucker who he had been seen fighting.” He tsks in irritation. “Fool.”

"Mistake?" Hermione repeats, letting the disgust she feels drip into her voice. "He murdered that poor man in cold blood."

"Man? He wasn't a man, he was a repulsive parasite who needed to be put in his place.”

”They’re people too!” Hermione protests. “Why are you doing this to them? Why would you do this after the same thing happened to your family?”

Riddle’s brows raise. “Well, well, well. I must say, Granger, I’m mildly impressed you found out about that.” He laughs. “But no. Vampires are common low-lives, drinking the blood of innocents to fuel their own power. _That’s_ why I kill them."

"Vampires don't murder for blood. It is you who is murdering innocents, you bastard!"

"So naive," He shook his head in disappointment. “And as clever as you might think you are for finding out my little,” he pauses, a smirk on his face. “ _Secret_ , you did fail to realise that it was I who murdered them. So no, this isn’t some sort of revenge for my poor, fallen ancestors, but rather the continuation of what I started all those years ago. I wanted to rid the streets of the weak. And my family were nothing but that. Weak fools, blithering on about _love_ and _kindness_ , rather than the important things. Power, for instance.”

He laughs and Hermione curls her lip. “You disgust me. It’s not for you to decide who lives and who dies! It’s not for you to decide who is weak and who is strong. If anything, you’re the weak one! You say power is everything. That shows incredible weakness.” 

“How dare you?” Riddle’s blazing eyes turn murderous. “I’m not the weak one you _pathetic_ woman. _Crucio_!”

The first thing she feels is the shock. (It’s surprising, after all, being cursed by an unforgivable.)

Then, all she feels is agony. 

She blacks out for a moment, her skin stinging unmercifully under the heat of what feels like knives that she knows aren’t real. 

And then it stops. A man- it sounds like Riddle- lets out a shout. Hermione tries to move her head to see what’s happening but a phantom pain stabs her neck and she screams in agony. 

Her shout is almost as loud as all of the other noises that are crowding her brain. She can hear that there are people surrounding her, but she can’t quite seem to make out any specific people or words from one another. It all blends together. 

She feels hands on her cheeks. They’re wet and slide round her face, scrambling for purchase and the person tries to lift her body up.

Is this really happening? 

“Hermione!” Someone shouts her name.

And then, nothing. 

* * *

She wakes to white.

Blinking madly, she squints at the brightness. She tries to bring her hand up to shield her eyes from the light, but they feel heavy and lethargic. 

“Don’t try to move.” The voice makes her jump. She looks around wildly. It’s Parkinson, seated by her bedside. 

She sits up, ignoring Parkinson’s order. The other woman rolls her eyes at Hermione’s stubbornness. “Parkinson? What happened?”

”Don’t you remember? Riddle attacked you.”

It all comes flooding back. 

Riddle was Lord Voldemort. He killed his own family and countless others, for what? She’d trusted him- looked up to him even. Her eyes prickle with unshed tears. How could she have been so blind. 

She doesn’t say anything so Parkinson continues. “Cruciatus curse. I got there moments after he threw the curse.”

”You did? What happened next?”

“Your friends, Harry and- Ronald, I think- they fought with Riddle and detained him. He’s been taken in for questioning now.”

Hermione breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank Merlin.” 

Parkinson smiles at her.

Another thought strikes her and as quickly as she relaxed, her anxiety spikes. “Astoria? Is she okay?”

Parkinson nods. “She’s here too- in surgery right now, but she should be fine.”

Hermione lets herself smile. “Good.” 

Parkinson returns her smile, if somewhat hesitantly.

”What is it?”

”Are you really going to worry about me.” She laughs. “You’re the one who’s been passed out for three days!”

Hermione feels her eyes widen. “Three days! Seriously?”

”Yes.” Parkinson’s smile wobbles slightly and her hand twitches. Her fingers stretch forwards, and then freeze. Her hand hovers for a moment before her mind is made up and Hermione’s arm is covered by Parkinson’s warm palm.

Hermione doesn’t dare move as Parkinson’s thumb caresses her bicep gently, her eyes fixated on a small mole located there. “I missed you barging into my house, you know.”

Hermione lets out a wet laugh. “Did you really?” She teases.

“Yes.” 

Hermione doesn’t quite know how to reply to Parkinson’s serious tone. “I’ll have to come round more often then.” She winks cheekily, ignoring the spasm of pain that lights up when she moves her cheek. 

Parkinson’s head lifts, her gaze finally being drawn away from Hermione’s arm to meet her eyes. She stares at her for a moment. “I’d like that.”

Silence hangs in the air as Parkinson chews her lower lip, looking uncharacteristically vulnerable. Hermione’s eyes are drawn to Parkinson’s thick, ruby red lips as she worries it. 

She wants to do that herself. 

“Me too.” And then Hermione leans forwards and presses her lips to Pansy’s. 

At first Parkinson feels frozen against her lips and Hermione almost pushes herself away but as soon as she’s about too, Parkinson presses forward, moving her lips against Hermione’s. 

Hermione’s heart swells as they kiss. It’s sweeter than she had expected from Parkinson, after all of her seductive lines and teasing, but Hermione finds she rather likes both sides to the girl. 

“Parkinson.” Hermione lets out a stunned breath.

The atmosphere is instantly broken as Parkinson lets out a laugh. “Are you _serious_ , Hermione? Bloody hell.” She laughs again.

Hermione flushes a brilliant bright red. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. 

“You know, you might want to start calling me Pansy if we’re going to be kissing each other from now on.” 

_From now on._ The words make her beam. 

“Okay,” Hermione says softly, pausing to peck another soft kiss to Parkinson’s lips. “Pansy.” 

**Author's Note:**

> So this started out literally AGES AGO as a random vampire pansy fic (just because I wanted hot vampire pansy with a castle and my fav girls wearing Victorian style dresses bc???? idk????) and then I came back to it after ages and I decided Hermione was going to be a detective and it kind of... spiralled from there and i decided to take FOUR months to write this bc i hate myself and finishing anything is a struggle anjsjsjsjdjsksj
> 
> anyways, I hope u enjoyed!! leave a kudos or comment if u liked it :)
> 
> pls hit me up on tumblr @thejournalofshite to scream about pansmione with me!!


End file.
